Pity the Gods

Timmy had just been crowned King.

Timmy couldn't remember the last time he had been this happy as he glided down the stairs toward the castle gardens.

Seeing his father always did that.

Today felt arranged around Timmy. Joe was here for something important, probably to instruct him, advise him, maybe say something solemn and fatherly about Timmy's new role as King.

Timmy did not care.

His father was here to see him, and that was all that mattered.

By the time Timmy reached the gardens, he was already sitting across from Joe.

Timmy barely noticed the world rearranging itself around him as his thoughts drifted and the clouds rolled by. One moment he had been walking toward the table, enjoying the quiet companionship of his father. The next, trimmed hedges, stone paths, and carefully arranged flowers all surrounded them.

The silence between them didn't feel awkward or lacking.

It felt important.

Timmy let himself bask in the sunlight and quiet a little longer than necessary, partly because kings were entitled to silence and partly because he liked the feeling of his father waiting for him to speak.

Joe gathered his thoughts with the patience of a man who expected the world to wait.

Then he asked, "What do you know about dreaming?"

The question pulled up a dozen thoughts in Timmy's mind at once, but one rose above the rest.

Timmy remembered that morning.

More specifically, he remembered waking Kyle.

Kyle was one of his servants.

Not an important one.

Timmy's usual morning routine with Kyle was simple.

He kicked him in the balls until he woke up.

"Oof. Who am I? No, where am I? Never mind. What day is it?"

Timmy kicked him again.

"Oof. Who are you? Wait, what is that? This does not look good."

Another kick.

"Oof. Well hello there. Do you have a quest for me or something? No? I'm straight, unfortunately."

Timmy had been breathing harder by then, not from effort but from annoyance, watching each kick seem to reset Kyle's thoughts like a TV remote.

Kyle would get a sentence or two out, get kicked, then return halfway into some new line of nonsense with the same stubborn, conversational stupidity he brought to everything else.

Usually, that was all there was to him.

But then Kyle had blinked twice, squinted at Timmy with an expression that was somehow both concussed and alert, and said:

"Whoa, why do my nuts already hurt? I thought dreams were supposed to be the heavenly wishes of our souls, mercifully forgotten when we wake and confirm that we never left the depths of hell."

That had been different.

Timmy's foot had slowed before the next kick landed.

Even now, hours later, he had not shaken the feeling that Kyle had somehow stumbled into profundity.

Worse than that, Kyle hadn't sounded like he was rambling when he said it.

He had sounded, briefly and offensively, like he knew what he was talking about.

"WAKE UP!"

Timmy jerked and looked over.

Joe had been waiting for Timmy's answer the whole time, a loving smile on his face.

"Apologies, Father. Dreams are the heavenly wishes of our souls, mercifully forgotten when we wake and confirm that we never left the depths of hell."

Timmy delivered the sentence with the sort of scholarly confidence that made it feel improved merely by passing through his mouth.

Joe said nothing.

His smile widened, and Timmy felt warmed through just from being seen by him.

Timmy's attention drifted to a sunflower near the edge of the path.

The flower stood a little apart from the others, brighter than it should have been, with a thick dark center and a yellow ring spreading outward in a way he found faintly hypnotic.

He leaned toward it.

The thing almost seemed to lean back.

By the time Timmy bent to smell it, the flower had already closed the distance for him.

Then he stopped.

That was not a flower smell.

It was shit.

Timmy jerked his head back—

—and woke up with a very hairy butthole hanging inches from his face.

For one stunned second, his mind refused to connect the two images.

Sunflower.

Asshole.

Garden.

Bedroom.

Father.

Kyle.

Then the world finished snapping into place.

Timmy had fallen asleep in his computer chair sometime after midnight, curled up in front of a monitor he had been too tired to turn off.

Kyle had already been trying to wake him for ten minutes.

The first time, he had opened Timmy's door and said his name.

Timmy had rolled over.

The second time, Kyle had thrown a sock at him and yelled, "WAKE UP!"

Timmy had pulled his knees into the computer chair and kept sleeping.

Kyle went downstairs.

Their mother was standing in the kitchen with her keys in one hand and Timmy's lunch in the other.

"Is he up?"

"I woke him up."

She looked toward the stairs.

"Is he up?"

"I just said I woke him up."

"That isn't what I asked."

Kyle stared at her.

"He went back to sleep."

She closed her eyes for half a second.

"Kyle."

"What?"

"Go make sure your brother gets up."

"I did."

"No. You told him to get up."

"That's usually how waking someone works."

"Kyle."

There was something about the way she said his name that made being technically correct feel like another kind of failure.

"He's ten," Kyle said.

"And you're fourteen."

"How does that make him sleeping my fault?"

"I didn't say it was your fault."

"You're getting mad at me."

"I'm getting frustrated because I asked you to help your brother and now you're standing here arguing with me."

Kyle opened his mouth.

She pointed toward the stairs.

"You're his older brother. Go."

That was how it always worked.

Timmy slept.

Kyle failed to wake him correctly.

Timmy forgot something.

Kyle should have reminded him.

Timmy was late.

Kyle should have made sure he was ready.

Timmy's failures had an irritating habit of arriving at Kyle's feet with his name already written on them.

Kyle went upstairs.

Again.

This time he brought his phone.

Not because the plan required evidence.

The plan required an audience.

Even if the audience ended up being Kyle later.

He opened the camera, started recording, lowered his pants, and positioned himself carefully over Timmy's face.

There.

If Timmy needed special assistance waking up, Kyle could provide it.

Kyle felt the fart ready.

He smiled.

Then let it go.

The sound was wet and disrespectful.

Timmy's face twitched.

His nose wrinkled.

His eyes opened.

The first thing he saw was Kyle's asshole.

The second thing he understood was the smell.

For one perfect second, Kyle thought the prank had gone exactly as planned.

Then Timmy sucked in a breath.

"Mo—"

Kyle startled.

His entire body tightened.

Unfortunately, the fart had been wetter than advertised.

The sudden movement dislodged something tiny that had no business being involved.

For one impossible second, the room held still around them.

Then a small piece of shit dropped directly into Timmy's open mouth.

Kyle froze.

Timmy froze.

The phone kept recording.

Timmy made a tiny sound.

Not a scream.

That was the first bad sign.

Then his mouth snapped shut on instinct.

His throat moved.

Kyle's face changed.

"Oh."

Timmy's eyes widened.

Kyle looked at the phone.

Then back at Timmy.

"Oh, fuck."

Timmy fell sideways out of the computer chair.

He hit the floor hard, rolled once, scrambled onto his hands and knees, and dry-heaved with total commitment.

Kyle jumped down and yanked his pants up.

The recording was still running.

He stopped it.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

A moment ago, the video had been funny.

Now Kyle wasn't sure he even wanted it to exist.

On the floor, Timmy gagged so hard his whole body seemed to fold in segments.

Saliva hung from his mouth.

His eyes streamed.

He spat.

Coughed.

Dry-heaved again.

Kyle watched him, horrified.

"Did you swallow it?"

Timmy turned his head.

The expression on his face answered.

Kyle grimaced.

"Oh, God."

Timmy gagged again.

Kyle looked at the phone.

Then at Timmy.

"Okay. That was an accident."

Timmy stared at him through watering eyes.

"I'm serious. I was just farting. You woke up."

Timmy coughed.

"And you opened your mouth."

Timmy's expression changed.

Kyle heard himself and corrected course.

"You screamed."

Timmy spat again.

Kyle pointed at him.

"That's what I mean. You woke up screaming for Mom right when I was—"

He stopped.

There was no version of the sentence improving with completion.

Kyle lowered his hand.

"Don't go tell Mom like I did that on purpose. I was farting on you. You woke up and screamed."

Timmy dragged in a wet breath.

Kyle already knew.

"No."

"I'm telling Mom."

"Of course you are."

There it was.

After all of that, Timmy had learned absolutely nothing.

Kyle had accidentally shit in his mouth and somehow the most predictable part of the morning was still happening exactly on schedule.

Timmy coughed and sucked in another breath.

"Mom!"

Nothing.

Kyle looked toward the door.

Timmy tried again.

"Mom!"

His voice cracked halfway through.

Still nothing.

Timmy coughed, gagged, and pulled in another breath.

"Mom—"

The word broke apart.

This time Kyle heard something new underneath it.

Panic.

Timmy heard it too.

His eyes moved toward the open doorway.

For a moment, neither brother said anything.

A thin, ugly thought slipped loose in Kyle's head.

Maybe she had heard him.

Maybe she was tired of answering.

Maybe Timmy had screamed for her one too many times and this was finally the morning she decided whatever happened upstairs could stay upstairs.

Timmy tried again.

"Mom?"

Quieter this time.

That was worse.

Kyle watched his face.

For once, they were thinking almost the same thing.

Then their mother screamed from downstairs.

"Kyle!"

Kyle flinched.

Not Timmy.

Kyle.

Of course.

He closed his eyes for half a second.

Whatever had happened up here had already become his responsibility.

Timmy looked at him through watering eyes.

Their mother called again.

"Kyle!"

Kyle stared down at his brother.

The panic had already begun leaving Timmy's face.

The machinery still worked.

Kyle's disgust returned with it.

"The day she stops loving you," he said, "is the day you're dead."

Timmy stared back.

Then he hauled himself upright using the desk for support and stumbled toward the door.

One hand stayed clamped over his mouth as he ran for the bathroom.

Kyle remained in the bedroom.

His phone felt heavy in his hand.

The video was still sitting there, frozen on the last frame before everything stopped being funny.

He looked at it for another second.

Then locked the screen.

Downstairs, their mother shouted his name again.

Kyle knew what she wanted.

Not an explanation.

Just an answer.

He let her wait one beat longer than necessary.

Partly because he felt entitled to rebellion.

Partly because he liked the feeling of his mother waiting for him to speak.

Then he answered.

"Coming, Mother."